


If Only

by Voodooling



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:16:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodooling/pseuds/Voodooling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once these imaginings spark in John’s mind, it’s like a tidal wave; a crescendo of what might have beens and could have beens and if onlys.</p><p>And Sherlock is the enigma that John has fallen for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only

\---

“If I were to have anyone, it’d be you.”  
To know what could be, but never will be, is it worth it? John has asked himself this more times than he can count. Is ignorance really bliss?  
If things were different, if Sherlock was different, then they would be able to achieve the ultimate happiness.  
But if he was different, he wouldn’t be Sherlock.

And Sherlock, the consulting detective who denies all social norms and still refuses to keep the body parts out of the fridge and secret lover of bad telly, is the enigma that John has fallen for.

\---

He tells himself not to, but it’s hard to stop an idea once it’s formed.  
It began in the middle of a late night wank when he was suffering from a bought of insomnia. It later continued to linger in his thoughts along with his morning tea. By the next evening, it had blossomed fully in his mind, and has taken a permanent residence in John’s mind.  
It’s hard not to imagine what life would have been like, loving Sherlock…  
Sherlock loving him.  
It happens all the time now; in the mornings he can picture Sherlock trudging into the kitchen, yawning, wearing only the bed sheet. John would hand him a cup of tea, and Sherlock would reciprocate with a tender kiss to his forehead. John would proceed to finish his blog entry while Sherlock would look over his shoulder, complaining about his ‘flowery language’ and lack of accuracy. He would lean against John’s side, his body radiating heat. At crime scenes John imagines what it would have been like having Sherlock’s hand resting against his lower back, guiding him through the crime scene while declaring his deductions. They would look through the evidence together, a casual brushing of each other’s hands. When Sherlock asks John for his opinion, there would be a soft tenderness in his gaze amid the admiration. Whenever they had dinner at Angelo’s John wondered what it would have been like to actually be Sherlock’s date for once. When a case was over and they had takeout and comfortable lie-ins at 221B, John imagines what a picture of domestic bliss they could have made; John would sit on the couch watching some show or other with Sherlock’s back leaned against John’s arm lightly, laptop in his lap and typing away a new blog entry. Or, Sherlock’s head in John’s lap, eyes closed, with John’s fingers carting through his curls rhythmically, quieting Sherlock’s ever busy mind. Once these imaginings spark in John’s mind, it’s like a tidal wave; a crescendo of what might have beens and could have beens and if onlys.

If only.

\---

There’s a saying somewhere about the heart growing fonder when someone has been away.  
Sherlock was not one to keep up with such idioms, and he was quite sure that he did not have a heart.  
But things have changed, and time has passed.  
At first, he thought the phantom pain in his chest had been a side effect from the fall; something psychosomatic, possibly from the stress of all that’s happened since then. It wasn’t until a cold evening in Siberia amid the civil twilight that Sherlock realized, as he stood over the body of one of Moriarty’s top snipers, that the ache was because he missed John. He missed John, he needed John, he wanted John to be able to look at him at the end of this ordeal and say ‘it’s alright. You aren’t a killer, you are wonderful. You are extraordinary. You are brilliant.’  
‘You are Sherlock, and I love you.’

For Sherlock loved John.

\---

Mary was a wonderful woman, both Sherlock and John agreed. She understood the bond between her husband-to-be and the eccentric consulting detective. After a day full of chasing after criminals, John and Sherlock would return to 221B and be met with a wonderful dinner prepared by Mary and Mrs. Hudson, and they would sit and listen eagerly to the day’s adventures. Sherlock did not want to get along with Mary, but they had formed a strong friendship. Mary and Sherlock would tut disapprovingly at John’s butchering of the English language in his blog entries. Mary and John would lecture Sherlock for the hundredth time on why body parts need to be kept on the upper shelf only. Mary lectured both of them firmly on nights after particularly dangerous cases, rambling on about how she was worried and how they should have been more careful as she inspected their injuries. They let her, because they knew she cared.  
Sherlock was frustrated with ‘feelings’ and his ‘heart’. To simultaneously hate and love someone was terribly confusing to him. Mary was important to him like Mrs. Hudson was; a mother-like figure in his life. At the same time, she was the one who was taking John away from him.  
He wished he was as cold-hearted as people thought he was. He was angry.

Why had he given his heart away?

\---

Mary had a habit of leaving notes around the flat.  
‘Got the milk this afternoon, don’t you fret about your evening cuppa.’  
‘I’ve popped out to have dinner with a friend. Dinner’s in the fridge. Please don’t let Sherlock microwave it.’  
‘The experiment in the washroom sink exploded an hour ago. The flat stinks now, so I’ve gone out until you boys clean it up.’  
Soon, Sherlock picked up the habit as well, and so did John. Blue post-its were Sherlock’s, green ones were John’s, and yellow ones were Mary’s. Of course, Sherlock still signed his notes with ‘SH’.  
Once, they even found a note left by Mrs. Hudson.  
‘I have booked a dinner for the four of us at the new fancy restaurant that just opened recently. Sherlock, you should know which one I’m talking about. See you all tonight, dearies!’

The note was purple.

\---

When Mary became ill, everyone stopped writing notes. Slowly, they took down the notes posted all around their flat.

The only ones left in the flat were yellow.

\---

Grief is different for everyone.  
Some become introverted, spending all their time alone. Some try to hide their grief, distracting themselves by going out every day. Some cry endlessly, others smile fondly at distant memories.  
John Watson destroys everything Mary Watson owned.  
Sherlock finds John crumpled on the floor in the kitchen, kneeling on the floor with his body hunched over, his face hidden in hand. In his other hand was a crumpled yellow note.

From then on, there were no more notes in 221B.

\---

Sherlock loved John.  
John loved Sherlock.  
‘It wouldn’t be fair to her. I love you but… But to be with you after Mary has died… I can’t bring myself to do so.’  
So they remained as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Consulting detective and his blogger.

\---

Sherlock decided he hated Mary.  
How dare she die, and leave John like this? How dare she hurt his John so. How dare she make Sherlock care for her and then disappear? How dare she take John from him and then give him back in such a way?

How dare she leave them both here, broken, and the same as how they began.

\---

Sherlock was the one to find the small yellow note. It was slipped in his favourite book about bees. It was addressed to John. For three days he refused to give the note to John, but also didn’t allow himself to read it.  
Finally, he gave in and handed the note over, book and all.

\---

_I love you John, but you were never mine to keep._  
 _Just say yes to the poor boy already!_  
 _\- Mary_

\---

When you have wanted something for so long, and it’s so close you could just taste it, you become afraid. You become afraid that something will go wrong and you’ll fall before the finish line. You become afraid that it won’t be as you imagined. You become afraid that what you thought could be actually will never be.  
They spent the first month after the discovery of the note simply knowing; knowing that their feelings were mutual and that they were now together.  
Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson.  
John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes.  
There were light embraces and hand holding with sweaty palms. There were shy glances and knowing smiles. There were held gazes and quiet laughter.  
Their first kiss, Sherlock missed John’s mouth and ended up kissing John’s upper lip. John laughed at Sherlock’s appalled expression before he held Sherlock’s face between his hands and kissed Sherlock softly. John’s hands trembled slightly, but the kiss was firm. They parted, foreheads lightly touching, and they shared a quiet smile.

If I were to have anyone, it’d be you.

And now, I do.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been in my mind for awhile and I finally wrote it out at 3 AM in the morning. Huzzah.


End file.
